Tuesday, 12 May 2020

The beginning of the end

At 1638hrs last Thursday, I drew a line under my marks for the last of my final year project students. I had knocked off 3 that day; and it took me 9 elapsed hours with sanity-saving breaks for tea, pasty, and transplanting green beans. That was the last piece of intellectually demanding work I'll be doing for The Institute. There is scads of bureaucratic work still on my TTD list but, having cancelled my Human Physiology exam to covid-spare my Pharmacy Technician students, I can watch as my colleagues sweat the on-line alternative assessment theatre as well as the usual marking of submissions.

Wot? Cancelled the Hum Phys exam? After you worked so hard, and talked so fast to cover the learning outcomes in March? Talking about inflammation and the hormonal control of sperm production because they were on the May exams, was my last in-the-same-room action with any students. Shortly after that, it became clear that May exams would contravene physical distancing protocols and we were requested-and-required to think of alternative assessment methods and summarise these on an enormous departmental spread-sheet. I tell ya, b'ys, my knickers were well twisted by this requirement and I put 4 different ideas up on line. The dilemma was that Institutional Me thought
  1. that the exams should be as normal as possible even if carried out at the kitchen table
    • The option taken by most colleagues
  2. that threat could be turned into a learning opportunity "write a report on the human physiological effects of SARS-CoV2 infection".
  3. that seemed an unfair burden so I rowed back to a key part of the syllabus with "write a report on the physiological control of blood-pressure by the nervous and endocrine systems"
All the while, in parallel, the airwaves were filled with reports of how our pharmacy technicians PT students were going to work in shops across the region, with sketchy PPE, extra stressed customers, and the shelves empty of ibuprofen. I thought that, IF I set the exam ANDIF one student pulled a desperate all-nighter to cram in the material ANDIF a sleep-deficit mistake was made at work the following day ANDIF someone got the wrong meds THEN I'd never know BUT it would be on my transcript when I appeared at the pearly gates. I wrestled with this [all-nighter alert] and then acquired a back-bone and made my final entry on the alternative assessment spread-sheet.
The Learning Outcomes have been met by Continuous Assessment
and calculated a final mark based on all the quizzes, research projects and assignments I had given the PTs since September. The language is important; you can make it easier for people to accept your proposal. This decision / proposal had to go for appro Up the Khyber Hierarchy through the Programme Board, The Alternative Assessment Tribunal and Academic Council but was eventually given the stamp of approval. It felt right, I felt right-on. It put things in a proper perspective. Much as I'd like folks to know that insulin is smaller than the pancreas and that oxytocin is more complicated than you think, it would be unrealistic to think that this information would stick for more than a few days after the final exam.

One of the unintended consequences of this High Moral Ground decision, is that yesterday I uploaded the PT1 marks onto the central marks computer and got closure on the last iteration of my main lecture course at The Institute. I can now spend a half day not marking crabbed-hand, rote-learned, answers to my exam questions. Done!

Then again then again, I had a long chat with my retired-at-fifty pal the day I finished my Projects and he suggested I might, in an HR emergency, answer the call to serve The Institute for part of next academic year as we emerge from lock-down. That's at least 4 months away. La La La, can't hear that call.
For Now its par TAY,

Monday, 11 May 2020

Quinoa

We've always been a little bit End-of-Days millennial. I didn't really believe that Y2K would cause my tumble-drier to start talking binary at me. Nevertheless I dropped in a hardware store and bought a bunch of woodscrews  in case there were no shops but ravening herds of carpenters. At least a wood-screw is not going to go 'off' so long as you keep in reasonably dry and salt-free. Our planning for an uncertain future w.r.t. food didn't have such a good record. 20+ years ago, with two small children at foot and one car we started a relationship with Munster Wholefoods, who would ship for free for a minimum order of ?£200?. Even with 4 people and the unexpected guest to feed, it was hard to find £200-worth of groceries unless we were prepared to eat A Lot of lentils. I still remember with shame the 6 x 500g packets of gram-flour with which I was going to make mmmmm good pakoras and bhajis. I think we used one packet. A few years later I opened another packet and found a big pock of green mould on top: so they all went to the chickens.

With Coronarama everyone seems to be looking at the further, dustier end of their store cupboards. And I am looking for vehicle for our parsley glut. I was talking to Dau.II aka Cookie my GoTo for culinary advice and she rattled off bulgar wheat, cous-cous, rice all of which would take parsley. But when he got there the cupboard was bare . . . except for 500g unopened of Quinoa Chenopodium quinoa. And if you've been living under a stone since quinoa got trendy you'll need to ask for keen-Wa not Kwinnoa in the health food shop or risk getting sniggered at. The though being the deed, I decided to put 60g = 2oz of the little off-white seeds into a dry sauce-pan and roast them while the kettle boils. When you add the hot water to the much hotter sauce-pan [heavy bottomed for pref] there is a most satisfying explosion of steam and hot spittle warOOOMPH!. Cooking for 15 minutes was enough despite the packet being 9 months beyond sell-by. There it is [R above] run through a strainer and blutted on the plate. Could be porridge, could be cous-cous, could be rice-pudding. It's fine, it's been rescued from the dark while it is still edible . . . so I won't need to be bullied into eating it - with parsley or. as I did, with a little grated cheese and a slug of olive oil. Nothing wrong with a plate of beige. Now that I have established the viability of that pack of quinoa, I am thinking about other options: quinoa-and-pork pasties; quinoa kedgeree; coronation quinoa; quinoa con carne; quinoa chinois . . .

Sunday, 10 May 2020

Sunday Random

Last Spike? What about the Last Straw of minute obsessive control measures dreamed up by The Man? What about a gracious send-up ? "Do you have a cupboard under your stairs? Have you ever spent the day there? No? Guess what you’re doing today. You may take only the following items: a block of jelly, a tepid hot water bottle, a torch, a map of Spain, three Weetabix biscuits."
And a Nederlands solution to physical distance dining:

Saturday, 9 May 2020

Turn and turn about

On the 17th April after a week of no rain, we had a yard sale [above] . . . nobody came . . .  so we put it all back in the same shed. That might strike tidy uncluttered people as an exercise in futility, and I'd have to half agree. At least everything got an airing and we are slightly more confident [no hiding place] that the mouse which had been sharing the sheep muesli wasn't there any more. We also managed to set aside a car load of electronic trash: computer monitors, Aldi web-cams, a casette recorder.  Just as soon as the Bring Centre re-opens we'll get that shite off site. I was amazed to [re]discover a large boxful of commercial DVDs. There was phase in my life, after I discovered play.com and was in full time employment, when I'd internet order films which I though would edutain our home-ed self-educating daughters. I wouldn't go mad about this but for several years, every bday or holiday someone in the family would get a film. That box had haemorrhaged my bank account of at least €500. Heck n jiminy, sometimes we'd watch films several times, so that was better value.
In any case, I had a nostalgic riffle through the box of boxes and came across Le Quattro Volte [2010 written and directed by Michelangelo Frammartino] which I was pretty certain I'd never seen and couldn't remember buying. It might be called 84 minutes of deep; some critics have called it Slow Cinema. It's the kind of thing that gets shown at the Blackstairs "subtitles obligatory" Film Society [multiprev]. The film starts with an obscured view of a charcoal business [above] which with hindsight sets up one of the key themes of the film. After that there is a several minutes sweep across an impossibly romantic Calabrian landscape following an elderly and lonely goatherd high on a hill through his daily round. At the end of the day the old boy delivers a bucket of milk to the village church where he exchanges it for an envelope of church dust-sweepings.
Grazie he says
Prego, the sacristan replies
At that point, I have a panic because no subtitles appear with the voices. Stop the movie, search the options and settings for subtitles - English for pref. There .  are .  no .  subtitles! Worse things have happened to me in a cinema and with some trepidation I watched on. Well, those two words were the only dialog in the film, so subtitles schmubtitles.

The critics say it is an investigation of metempsychosis which requires us to accept that, after the old shepherd dies in his bed, he is reborn as parti-coloured billy-kid. We follow the lonely life of said kid - lonely because the little creature gets lost in the woods. The herd of goats [with or without the lost one] is taken over by a younger, fitter, fatter goat-herd . . . and the inconsequential normality of rural life continues: there are no gunfights and no car chases. Another Volte!

The next episode involves a mighty community effort to fell out an enormous pine tree from the surrounding hills and re-erect it in the centre of the village: we have moved from the life-and-death of man to the life-and-death of goat to the life-and-death of tree. Third Volte!

At the end of the Patron Day's festivities the tree trunk is brought down, sawed into convenient lengths and taken away . . . by the charcoal burners! Quattro Volte! Yes yes four turns makes a full circle, we are back where we started and the charcoal is for sale by the sack [R] around the town. Without the charcoal there would be no pasta carbonara and life as we imagine it in deepest Calabria would come to a creaking halt, The critics say there is a conscious tribute by the writer-director to weirding philosophy of Pythagoras; who lived and died hereabouts 2,500 years ago. But that must be nonsense because everbode kno Pythagoras was all about the broad beans Vicia faba and they don't get a sniff of a mention through the whole film. We can all find 84 minutes of idle time to fill during Coronarama: you should give Quattro Volte a go [it's on youtube] and it's been reviewed in the Grauniad.

Friday, 8 May 2020

Phoowee

I'm listening to E.O.Wilson reading his book Advice to Young Scientists. Which is about the only talking book I could get immediately through Borrowbox. Or rather it was the first book I trawled up as possible reading from their not-infinite archive. You have to wait for months to snag any of Bill Bryson's stuff, for example.

E.O. Wilson has been a huge presence just off in the wings as I have been a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage. of science. The reason why I washed out of the Genetics Department in 1977 with a crappy degrees was because I had willfully ignored the the syllabus and curriculum and pursued the then barely existent vocation of evolutionary biologist. In the mid-70s, the genetics syllabus was really quite thin with a mix of a) crossing bacteria and drosophila and counting the numbers of different types of offspring b) a pretty tired rehashing of 1930s observations about the colours of the land-snail Cepaea nemoralis and the peppered moth Biston betularia. DNA sequencing, and all the data it generated was a next decade thing. In 1975, EOW published Sociobiology - the new synthesis his mighty compendium of evidence that there was a genetic component to behaviour: not only in ants [the Wilson bailiwick] but also <shock> in people. It caused a huge stir in America and ripples in Ireland and I may have been the first person in the country to read devour the book from cover to cover.  Written by an entomologist but ranging wide over the plains animal kingdom in search of cooperative behaviour, it sang for butterfly me. I followed the book's references out to the library in UCD to find and absorb the original papers on social behaviour and altruism by JBS Haldane, WD Hamilton, GC Williams. I wrote a long review of the book and the wider field and circulated it round the department where it caused not a ripple of interest except from a slightly off-kilter post-doc called Terek Schwartz. Sociobiology didn't make me a Nasty by blowing my mind out of its very narrow and privileged rut. There no useful future in writing people off because of their real or supposed genetic deficits; it's a call to work hard for the dispossessed . . . because (to use the rather empty slogan of the current government propaganda) we're all in this together. Oppressing the dispossessed make them more likely to aspire to rob our telly.

In Harvard, where Wilson was teaching, Sociobiology caused a huge shit-storm. The leftist students and academics, led by Stephen J Gould and Richard Lewontin denounced their colleague for the sin of genetic determinism and wrote an open letter to the New York Times. For them, and it is obvious that neither of them read the book with the same care and attention as me, Sociobiology fuelled the belief that straight white males were naturally Top Dogs and blacks were condemned by their genes to suffer from sickle-cell anaemia, heart disease . . . and stupidity. My pal P, who had been in U Chicago at the same time as Lewontin before his translation to Harvard, was tickled by the fact that the great socialist had two listings in the Chicago phone book: one for himself and one for his children.

But back to Uncle  Ed's advice to young scientists. He encourages his readers to have a lot of ideas and explore them scientifically. How do you get ideas? But being awake! . . . rather than sleep-walking through life. Pay attention to the world around you. "The most exciting phrase to hear in science, the one that heralds new discoveries, is not 'Eureka!' but 'That's funny!'" - Isaac Asimov. Wilson is an entomologist he spends a lot of time looking at ants. Ants don't live forever and sometimes they peg out in the nest. In many species there is a caste called undertaker ants who pay attention when one of their sisters die and carry the corpse out of the nest where it can be return to earth without smelling out the nest. Wilson saw this happen for years as he concentrated on other aspects of ant behaviour. Then he asked how do the undertakers know that annie ant is dead? Because, like, scientist, he floated a hypothesis based on his deep knowledge that ants are chemically sensitive - they follow each other to rich sources of food, for example. He reasoned that the undertakers are probably cuing in on a volatile chemical produced naturally by the decay process.

Hypothesis? Test! He ordered up a long list of chemicals which he knew or surmised were involved in ant-rot. He dabbed minute quantities of these in the nest in turn and observed whether undertakers reacted. After many dead ends he found that oleic acid and its esters were potent triggers for the undertaking industry. Not molecules like cadaverine putrescine [prev] which really smell deathly hallows to us. He even essayed a tiny prank by dabbing a living ant with oleate and watching her being unceremoniously removed from the nest with a her legs waggling in the air. As a volatile, the oleic acid eventual dispersed and she'd be allowed back to her regular labours. I couldn't track down this study in the published literature but there's a pretty close replication here.

The ideal scientist thinks like a poet
and only later works like a bookkeeper. 
E.O. Wilson

Thursday, 7 May 2020

Finality

I'm in my final year! I'll soon be graduating from to the University of Life having spent almost the entirety of my adulthood in one or other institute of further education. It would probably be true to say that I learned more in my gap years:
  • 15 mo after school 1972 ; 
  • a year after the BA 1977; 
  • 6 mo after my PhD 1982 ; 
  • a year after six years teaching in U.Newcastle 1989: walked Portuguese Coast
  • 6 mo to do Santiago etc. in 2004; 
  • my cash-poor time-rich one-day-a-week year in 2012. 
Learned more about what matters: how to be kind (to yourself and others); that money buys ice-cream but not happiness; that writing is its own reward. 2020-1972 is 48 workable years; I've taken 5 of them Out; Out of academia, not necessarily out of the workforce. If you can do it, do it.

Anyway, in the last months weeks of actual work at The Institute I am reading and marking final year research projects: my seven aka The A team and, so far, five others as Second Reader. Naturally, I have to find Second Readers for The A Team. Why 'naturally'? Because "A" Team; because they become family; because we've spent 100+ hrs together at the frontier fighting orks and mining mithril. You can't give someone a high mark because you love 'em or they come from the same County. That won't make anyone happy in the long run. Second Reader is a fresh eye and is only reading the Project Report - what they call a thesis. 2Rs don't have the back-story; the existential crises; the attendance record. The Report in science, as elsewhere maybe, is The Deliverable. Without it, all the investigations, all the dead-ends, all the triumphs, all the clever ideas, all the discoveries, are just ephemeral dust.

Deadline for submission of projects was 22nd April and my peeps got their stuff in on time. All my other correcting and marking is done, so I was in no steaming hurry to read them; not least because I read an almost final version before Easter. Shortly after Easter, just when we didn't really need it, came the May Bank Holiday weekend when I could have made a start on the task. But I didn't. I had a weekend to myself. I repotted some baby swiss chard. I did the laundry because it was dry. I mowed some grass.  "On Tuesday morning . . ." I said

On Tuesday morning my decks were clear and, after tea and toast, I sat down to read the first thesis. I always do them alphabetically by first name so I neither do the interesting ones first nor save the best till last. By lunchtime, I'd done 2 out of 7, and I naively thought two more in the afternoon and I'll be finished by tomorrow night. Nope! All kinds of work stuff happened that afternoon, so it wasn't until nearly 8pm !jakers! that I finally put #3 to bed. One bit of stuff happens on Tuesday was an e-mail from the new and enthusiastic External Examiner to whom I sent "my" projects: Could I please send: the completed double-marked and signed grade-sheet, the module descriptor, the learning outcomes, the rubrics and the assessment breakdown . . . etc. The etc. was unintentionally funny: what else could they want? My naturalisation papers? Their timesheets? Photographs?

Wednesday morning I was thus already behind but there was a winking e-mail from a colleague asking could I re-mark my Second Reader report according to a new Marking Scheme out-of-300 points with (therefore, I guess) a more minute breakdown into categories than the old out-of-100% scheme. I could, and I did but I editted the new Excel marking scheme so it summed everything up for you. And, as that seemed a handy addition, I shared it with the other project supervisors. Well, that was the end of my productive and moderately enjoyable morning reading about the frontiers of science. A different, covid-sensitive [no formal presentation, no interview] marking scheme was proposed at 10:30 . . . written in crap Excel and I felt obliged to make that one work properly too. Then more requests to re-mark my earlier 2nd Reads according to the new scheme. etc. indeed!

These marking schemes are the quintessence of assessment theatre. There is an idea that reading a thesis and saying "I've supervised 60 final year projects over the last 10 years [true dat]; this one is a solid 2.ii, I'll give it 56%" or "this fellow is a charmin' wastrel, who was rarely in class, didn't do a tot of work all year and had to be helped over the line in a last month panic. A reluctant 43%" . . . may not seem scientific  . . . but it's actually quite reproducible. Does fragmenting the judgement:
Introduction 10
Materials & methods 10
Results 30
Analysis & discussion  30
Bibliography & references 10
Presentation 10
Total 100
make it more scientific, fair or reproducible? I suggest not. But Heck, if The Man demands it, I can, and I have, and I will, fill in such a form with equanimity. Hint: decide on Total then put in random/reasonable numbers so that they tally up to that Total. Helps if you have a properly constructed Excel spreadsheet - Excel was designed for such problems: I tried addressing such problems with a calculator BCE [Before Came Excel] in 1980. Nobody is going to the trouble of disputing your 7/10 for Introduction but a certain type of personality will be happier if the marks are backed up by "evidence" - no matter how specious that evidence might be. Harrumph, and like, etc.

Wednesday, 6 May 2020

Cojones

D'ye have nostalgia for Nostalgia Chick? That's Lindsay Ellis [recently in the Misogyny Wars] who used to review movies when Dau.I and Dau.II were teenagers. There's one timeless hilarious deconstruction of Labyrinth in which young Lindsay riffs continuously on David Bowie's package [distant zoom R]. You'll never make sense of Labyrinth's PG rating again! A lot of stand-up <geddit?> comedians of the old school got some mileage out of the size of men's genitals. I guess it's easy to laugh about down there matters because it would be hard <fnarr> to take such an absurd conglomeration of plumbing seriously. Des Bishop called his package a crinkled turkey gizzard to make light of the seriousness of testicular cancer. I don't ever remember being in a state of mind which thought that size matters. Although in checking the back-catalogue, I see that John Tyler Bonner died a year ago more that an decade after publishing his book Why Size Matters From Bacteria to Blue Whales.

I don't know about Bonner, but other evolutionary biologists, notably Mark Maslin have reflected on the comparative anatomy aspects of primate genitalia. It's a theme in evolutionary biology since Georges Cuvier's quip "À la vue d'un os, d'un seul morceau d'os, je reconnais et reconstruis la partie de l'ensemble dont il provient" [give me a fragment of bone and I can reconstruct the entire animal]. From certain peculiarities of anatomy you can infer a lot about the life-style - diet, behaviour, inter-personal relations - of the species. Canines for carnivores, flat molars for grinding hay. Sexual dimorphism [usually blokes bigger than women] strongly suggests a bit of polygamy. Although nobody to my knowledge has come up with an explanation of why men have proportionately bigger feet than women - it cannot be all the better for playing soccer with. Humans are defo sexually dimorphic but the size differential is nowhere as extreme as with gorillas so the consensus is that the human default position is girls on top more or less monogamous with a good bit on the side.
Here's a picture from Mark Maslin zooming in, not on the feet, but the package.
Proportionate to our size men have by far the biggest penis of among the great apes. But chimpanzees (both species) are really Buster Gonad [R] with their  unfeasibly large testicles - that's because they spend an enormous amount of the time bumping their uglies and so need a factory and warehouse for supply to meet demand. Men, not so much; indeed a couple of couplings will deplete the precious bodily fluids to zero and it will take a day or two to replenish. Remember the exhausted Rustico? If you're trying for a baby, it's probably a good idea to a) switch to boxers b) no wastage!

But if you limit your comparisons to the Great Apes, you're really not among the Big Boys. Eva Johanna Rode‐Margono led a team in 2015 which found the largest primate testicles in proportion to body weight in the scrotum of Mirza zaza [putting it all out there L]the northern giant mouse lemur found in a tiny isolated forest fragment of Madagascar. The species was only discovered and Latin-named in 2005. The team from Bristol Zoo capture-recaptured 5 male mouse lemurs and applied the calipers to their nads. The average volume was 3.9 cc. For a creature that weighs in a trifle under 300g; that's 1.3% of body weight. <TMI alert> I just measured my unfeasibly normal-sized testicles at wid 35mm x len 55mm </TMI> and applied that to the formula used by EJR-M [1/6 * π * w * w * l] to come up with a testis volume of 35 cc - call it 10x the size of Mirza's balls. But, at 70kg, I weigh 200x more than the biggest male mouse lemur. Matt Walker calculates that, for parity of esteem, we'd need Buster gonads the size of grapefruits,  That's more or less true but its based on a miscalculation of a misreading of the original paper; from which I attach an excerpt of Table 3:
Walker conjures up a testis volume of 15.48cc from thin air [from Table 3 the median volume is ~4,000cu.mm = 4 cc]. He then shows that he doesn't do the shopping: "Or put another way, if a man weighing 80 kilogrammes had testicles of an equivalent size to the lemur, they would be as large as a decent size grapefruit and weigh 4 kilogrammes". In my wildest tropical dreams I've never found a 4kg grapefruit. A 1kg grapefruit [same as a bag of sugar] is more like it. When you read make-it-accessible statistics on the BBC make sure you polish your crap-detector!